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She swallowed.
“Too slow,” he growled, and dove in again.
This time her lips clung, opened, letting his tongue slip in. He swept it through her mouth, claiming her, and she gasped. His arm tightened about her waist, the other holding her head so that he could deepen the kiss yet again.
This was the woman he had come here to find, not the brow beaten creature he’d seen at the vicarage. This woman.
Somewhere a door slammed, snapping her out of whatever spell she was under. She jerked and then began to struggle, and he finally let her go. She stumbled backwards and came up against the stairwell, using it for support as if her legs would not hold her up.
He lifted an eyebrow, waiting for her to say her piece.
“You … this is not …” Her bosom rose and fell, as if she was trying to catch her breath. Dominic thought she was magnificent, full of fire and emotion, the perfect mate for him.
“You said you wanted to speak to me,” he prompted her. “If it is what I think it is, then I don’t want to hear it. I am tired of being told what you believe is correct behaviour. I’m tired of hearing about what your future must be, Margaret. I have other ideas about your future—our future—and I’m putting them into practice.”
“You cannot force yourself upon me simply because you’ve decided I fit some matchmaking plan of yours,” she told him, hand clasped to her throat, her hair tumbling about her shoulders. Had he done that? He’d been so caught up in their kisses he couldn’t remember.
“I know your thoughts on matchmaking, Margaret. I wouldn’t presume to force anything on you.”
Her voice rose in pitch. “Then what were you just doing?”
“I was showing you in no uncertain terms how I feel about you. Did you like it? Because,” and he stalked closer to her, watching her green eyes grow big, “I think you did.”
He waited to hear whether she would deny it. Could she tell him she didn’t find him the least bit appealing?
“Margaret—”
She held out her hand as if to fend him off, and he noticed it was trembling. He almost felt ashamed. He knew he could take her in his arms again but even he was not that cruel. She needed time, and he wanted her to come to realise the inevitability of their alliance on her own.
“Did you walk here?” he asked her instead, wrapping his neckcloth back about his neck. “I’ll ask one of the servants to drive you back to the vicarage.”
“I—I rode my father’s horse,” she said.
“Then you definitely need to be driven home,” he teased gently. Before she could reply, he called out for one of his servants and gave him instructions.
Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were sparkling when he turned back to her. “You are very highhanded,” she told him.
“Is that all?”
She straightened her spine and made to walk past him, only to pause and look back at him over her shoulder.
“My father has asked if you and your sister would join us for luncheon after the sermon on Sunday.” Her voice sounded both breathless and resentful. “Please don’t feel you have to come. In fact, I would rather you didn’t.”
He smiled. “I’m happy to accept.”
Her gaze darted to his mouth and away again. She seemed to have more to say but whatever it was she decided against it. With a final glare, she walked out. He heard the front door close with a bang.
Dominic leaned against the bannister and smiled. Things were progressing well and he had given her plenty to think about. No doubt the curate would be at the luncheon and he would be able to cast an eye over him and decide how best to thwart any chance he had with Margaret.
She was his now, he could tell, and if she still had any doubts about it she wouldn’t for much longer.
7
Margaret sat ramrod straight in a corner of the earl’s coach as they drove the three miles back to the vicarage, while her emotions were in the sort of disorder they had never been in before.
She had ridden her father’s old pony to Sir Cecil’s house so that she could tell Monkstead … well, instruct him, on what he could and could not do. Mainly what he could not do. Instead he had manhandled her, argued with her, kissed her … Good lord, how he had kissed her! Who would have thought a kiss could be so visceral, so completely overwhelming, until she thought she was going to fall to the floor in a swoon. If she was the swooning type.
And she’d kissed him back. She could pretend all she liked but that was the truth. She’d kissed him back and she’d wanted to go on kissing him and if they hadn’t been interrupted who knew what might have happened? He could have picked her up in his arms and carried her … somewhere. To a sofa maybe, or a bed, although her practical mind would not allow for that, because Sir Cecil’s house probably didn’t have sofas or beds that were without dust and mould. Would Dominic have cared about that? Oh no, she had called him Dominic! In her mind, at least. But she thought he would care, he had sent her home in his coach, hadn’t he? So he would find somewhere safe and clean, and lay her down, and then he would take off his shirt—that was an important requirement of her fantasy—and then he would begin to kiss her again, only this time he would unbutton her gown …
